


Plus One

by EllieSaxon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary's gone, Mild Angst, Misunderstandings, No baby, Party Invites, Pre-Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, References to Smut, So it's not quite worthy of a mature rating, but no actual smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:10:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllieSaxon/pseuds/EllieSaxon
Summary: John has been back at Baker Street for over a year, when he gets an invitation to a party for a friend's twentieth wedding anniversary, and he's allowed a guest.John couldn't be more excited to go, but Sherlock is faced with the grim reality that, although he thought something was brewing between them, he was wrong. John is going to find a date, and Sherlock is going to be alone again.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! Good to see you all again. 
> 
> Because of writers block, the long story I've been trying to write is going nowhere, so I've decided to exercise my brain with some one-shots! This is the first result, and I have two more in the pipeline.
> 
> And most amazingly enough, this fic is 100% canon compliant. Or at least it is until New Years Day when TPTB break our hearts and send us into theory fueled frenzy. Until then, enjoy this fluff and a little angsty story (also called the Jens Special)
> 
> This is not beta'd or brit-picked, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> Thanks!  
> Ellie/Jens xx

_Michelle Whitfield & Andrew Mead_

_Request the presence of_

_John Watson and Guest_

_At the celebration of their 20 th Wedding Anniversary_

_On Saturday the 16 th of April at 7:30pm_

_Hillview House, Sherborne, Dorset_

 

 

“Oh wow, Michelle and Andrew’s twentieth is coming up already.”

Sherlock had just settled down on the sofa, hands stapled beneath his chin, to sort and properly file the case he and John had just completed, when he heard John voice coming from kitchen.

“Who are Michelle and Andrew,” he asked, not bothering to open his eyes, “and what are they about to have their twentieth of?”

“They’re friends of mine from university,” John said, walking into the sitting room. “It’s their twentieth wedding anniversary. I was Andrew’s best man, I actually introduced them.”

“Doctor, soldier, matchmaker, you’re a veritable triple threat.”

“Ha, yeah. But they’re hosting a party to celebrate, and look,” John chuckled, thrusting a glossy piece of cardstock at Sherlock, “it says ‘John Watson and Guest’. I’ve got six weeks to find a date, I wonder who I’m going to take.” He grinned.

And just like that, Sherlock felt as if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, he felt a tightness in his chest as if his heart stuttered to a halt. John wanted to find a date, he wanted to take some unknown woman away with him to a party celebrating lasting love.

It had been just over a year – three hundred and eighty-eight days to be exact – since John had figured out the baby Mary was carrying was not his, annulled his sham of a marriage, helped imprison his former wife and take down Culverton Smith, and moved back in to 221B, back in with Sherlock. In those three hundred and eighty-eight days, there had been no dates, no girlfriends, no women of any sort in anything that could even vaguely be construed as a romantic capacity. Ever since John moved back, it had just been the two of them, like before The Fall, but better. At crime scenes, they stood just a bit closer together. They sat closer in cabs or on the sofa while watching telly. There were times when one of them would fall asleep leaning against the other. They started cooking together, and sharing nearly every meal. There were more meaningful, almost heated, looks. Hands rested on legs now, and sometimes fingers would absentmindedly intertwine. It was all unspoken, but they were growing closer, Sherlock had thought – hoped – things were moving decidedly in the direction of… but no, clearly, he was wrong.

“Is that ok?”

Oh, John was looking at him, he had asked him something. Sherlock hadn’t even noticed John was still talking, too lost in his own pathetic hurt and self-pitying. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I was asking if it was ok, going to this party. It’s completely social, and kind of a formal event by the looks of it.”

“Right, of course.” Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to regain a bit of his composure. “You clearly played an important role in this couple’s relationship. You should be there.”

“Obviously I’m going to go, I just meant the whole… guest thing. I can easily go alone, it’s not a problem.”

John sounded nervous; John looked nervous. Was he actually asking Sherlock his permission to take someone to the party? If he was, then the answer was no. No, no no. No, John was not allowed to take anyone anywhere. John was not allowed to leave Sherlock again.

“The invitation grants you a guest, so you should have one.” It hurt to even say the words, but who was he to deny John something – someone – he wanted? “This doesn’t seem like the type of event you’d wish to attend alone. It’s fine. It’s perfectly fine.”

“I was… I was hoping you’d say that.” John looked down at his feet, not meeting Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock wasn’t sure what he would have done if John had been looking at him. “I’ll just go and RSVP now,” he grinned. “This will be good, this will be fun.”

Fun? Fun for whom? John was going to go off and woo someone who wasn’t him, there was going to be some new woman, and John was going to fall in… Sherlock was going to be alone again. No, this was anything but fun. John said something about ordering a takeaway for dinner – the most recent case prevented them from going shopping, so there was no palatable food in the flat – but Sherlock had stopped paying attention. Despite his stomach growling just prior to them returning to the flat, Sherlock had lost his appetite, and instead got up and headed down the hall to the bathroom.

“I’ll just order you something anyway, yeah?” He could hear John call through the door.

“It’ll go to waste, I’m not going to eat.” Sherlock just needed a shower, he needed to think.

 

After his shower, Sherlock went straight into his room, not bothering to go back out to the living room. He couldn’t face John again, at least not again that evening, he just needed a little time to get his head back on right. It had been foolish of him to think – to hope – that he and John could finally be together, that they could finally move beyond friends and flatmates, and become something more. To think John would ever seriously want him, would want a serious relationship with. He was kidding himself, he was just a place holder, someone familiar, a comfort, until John could find someone else, someone worthy of social, and formal, and twentieth anniversaries. John wanted someone with whom he could have something real, and no one wanted something real with someone who was just a comfort.

He had been right before, love is a chemical defect found on the losing side, and wasn’t Sherlock just the biggest loser of them all?

 

~***~

 

He didn’t think it could get much worse after that first evening, finding out that John planned on dating again, and realizing he was never going to have what he truly wanted. But, as was becoming his habit as of late, Sherlock was wrong. As the weeks wore on, as he watched John prepare for and get excited for the stupid, pointless, useless celebration, Sherlock’s hurt – and jealousy – grew.

 

It started almost immediately. Only a few days after the arrival of the invitation, Sherlock returned to the flat after meeting with Wiggins and some members of his homeless network, to find John on his laptop, flipping through pictures of a small, but elegantly decorated ballroom. It was the venue, it was Hillview House.

“There’s a pretty decent sized dance floor,” John said, bringing the computer over to where Sherlock was sat on the sofa. “Might even be able to put those dance lessons you gave me, to good use.”

He sat so close; Sherlock could feel the warmth radiating off him, he could feel it soaking through his clothes, and into his skin. He sat so close, almost touching, but not.

Why was John doing this to him? John couldn’t be that cruel, he wasn’t capable of being that cruel the person he claimed was his best friend. Was he? No, no, John wasn’t like that. Could he just not see what it was doing to Sherlock? Did he just think Sherlock didn’t care? Well Sherlock did care, he cared quite a bit.

Sherlock remembered the wedding, and the pain of having to watch John dance with Mary. That night, he thought that it could get no worse, that he couldn’t possibly suffer anything worse; but here he was again, and this time it was worse.  He could see John dancing with some new, faceless woman, smiling, laughing, holding her close. This future Mrs. Watson wouldn’t be a not-so-ex-assassin, only using John as a pawn to settle an old score; she’d be the real thing. She’d be permanent.

“Let’s just hope I’m not too rusty.” John chuckled. “It has been a while.”

Was this John’s way of asking for another lesson, a refresher? Oh god, what Sherlock wouldn’t give to have John in his arms again, slowly gliding – or slightly stumbling as the case may be – through the flat. But no, no, Sherlock couldn’t teach John how to dance, just so he could go off and dance with another; not again.

“I’m sure your skills are more than adequate. Your friends should be the center of attention after all.”

“I guess you’re right. And even if I do mess up, hopefully my dance partner is the forgiving sort.” John smiled, giving Sherlock a playful nudge with his shoulder.

Sherlock could only muster up a half-hearted “hopefully” in response.

It hurt.  

 

~***~

 

The next major blow came a week later, with the arrival of the suit. They had been at a crime scene – barely a six – when John had to leave early to ‘take care of something.’ It wasn’t until several hours later that he returned to the flat, well after Sherlock returned having done the Yard’s job for them, with a garment bag over his arm. He didn’t stop to talk, just went straight up to his room, only to come back down a few minutes later wearing a brand-new suit.

“So, what do you think?” He asked, arms out stretched, turning to give Sherlock a three hundred and sixty degree view.

“It’s a suit,” Sherlock said, knowing he looked and sounded utterly gobsmacked. But John was wearing a perfectly tailored, exquisite suit. He had only seen John dressed like that on one other occasion, and he couldn’t bear to think about that. “From my tailor.” He’d know Colin’s work anywhere.

“Yeah, and it cost me an arm and a leg; I don’t have to tell you.” John groaned. “But I needed a new one, seeing as my old suit go ruined during that case for Lord Bellinger. I just figured, you always look so good in your bespoke suits, and it might be nice to have something a bit better than the usual for next month, and you know… beyond.”

“I see.”

Of course, it was all for the anniversary party, it was all for his date. John was putting in extra effort, and it certainly wasn’t to impress his old university friends. It was for the faceless woman, he wanted the night to be special for her. Sherlock’s chest felt suddenly hollow.

“Plus, Bellinger certainly paid us enough that I could splurge a bit. So, was it worth it? Do I look ok?”

In truth, John had never looked more handsome in his life. The cut of the suit was perfect to show off his build. His arms, his chest, his thighs – his arse – which were too often hidden underneath old jeans and jumpers – though John looked handsome in those too – looked amazing wrapped in Savile Row’s finest. And the deep navy color of the fabric matched the deep blue of his eyes, making them stand out and look stunning, making John look stunning.

“Good.” Sherlock managed to say around the nervous lump that had settled in his throat. “You look… you look good.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it suits you.”

John raised his eye brows and laughed. “Pun intended?” 

“Ha. Yes.” Sherlock said through a tight smile.

 

For the rest of the evening, Sherlock forced himself to focus on his laptop and his latest blog post on the variations in soil acidity across south western England, and not on John, who had changed back into his regular clothes. The blog post did not get written. And later that night, once Sherlock had retired to his room, he lay in bed, and the image of John in that suit came back in full force.

Sherlock imagined John standing before him at the foot of the bed. Imaginary John’s eyes blazed with the same want that consumed Sherlock, and slowly Sherlock undressed him, one article of clothing at a time. The jacket was the first to go, falling in a heap as Sherlock slowly ran his hands up John’s arms, feeling the firm muscles through his shirt sleeves. Then came the waistcoat, unbuttoned and still hanging off of John’s broad shoulders when Sherlock started working at shirt. The shirt and waistcoat soon joined the jacket on the floor, and Sherlock dropped his head, kissing, licking, nipping, at John’s exposed chest. John tangled his hands in Sherlock’s hair, letting out a deep moan when Sherlock mapped out the topography of his scar with his fingers and then tongue. Finally, Sherlock undid John’s flies, before pushing down his trousers – there were no pants in this fantasy – allowing the now naked John to pin him to the bed and take anything and everything he wanted. The imaginary John was just the right balance of gentle and forceful; he took, claimed, owned every inch of Sherlock’s body. John, a living dichotomy of soft and hard, sliding against and into Sherlock, kissing away Sherlock’s cries and moans. It wasn’t long before Sherlock came with a choked sob as he was suddenly left alone in an empty bed with only the cold realization that he would never have anything more than the fantasy of a John who wanted him, a John who could love him the way he loved John.

God, it hurt.

 

~***~

 

“So I… uh… I only booked one double.” John said out of the blue one day, about two weeks after the suit incident. “Not that I’m presuming anything, of course.”

Sherlock was only half paying attention, his concentration primarily focused on the pig’s feet dissolving on the kitchen table. “A double what?” he hummed.

“A double hotel room. You weren’t listening, were you?” John sighed. “Michelle and Andrew’s party is in the evening and Sherborne is over two hours away; it’s just easier to stay the night and return home in the morning, or… or afternoon.”

Oh, of course, the upcoming party. It was always about the party. There were times Sherlock could almost forget about it – and John’s inevitable departure – never entirely, but almost. Then John would do or say something that made it come roaring to the forefront of his thoughts.

John was staring at him. Did he want him to say something? He should say something. What was he supposed to say? _Fantastic, John! I hope the bed is firm enough for you. Did you check to see if there’s a footboard to ensure you have enough leverage? What about a headboard? I could steal a set of handcuffs, in case you and she are into that kind of stuff! How are the walls, properly soundproofed?_

Finally, after several moments of silence, Sherlock managed to find his voice – and some semblance of poise – again. “It seems pointless to pay for more than one room. A single double room is reasonable.”

“Yeah… yeah, I thought so too.” John blushed. “I’ll get the train tickets later, when we have a better idea of a good time to go up. Probably early or mid-afternoon, don’t want to miss the main event.”

“Can’t have that.” Sherlock mumbled, turning back to the pig’s feet. He didn’t understand it, why was John telling him all this? John had never run his date plans by Sherlock in the past, so why start now? Was it because Sherlock had been so involved in the wedding, that now John thought he’d want to be privy to the planning and organization of all of John’s romantic entanglements? He swore, that damn wedding was never going to stop haunting him.

For the next half hour, Sherlock tried – and failed – to get back into the proper headspace to continue his experiment. It was useless, he couldn’t get the image of John and the faceless future Mrs. Watson out of his head.  Them sitting side by side on the train ride, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. Them walking hand in hand as they explored the town, before heading to the party to drink and dance, and be surrounded by other happy couples. Them locked away in their shared room, in their shared bed. Sherlock needed out of the flat, he needed air.

“Molly just texted,” he lied, “she says she has a diseased spleen for me if I’m interested. I’m just going to head over to Bart’s and have a look.”

“You do love a good diseases organ. Want me to tag along?”

“No, no, you stay here. I shan’t be long.”

“Oh, yeah, alright.” John sounded disappointed, like he wanted to go along. But he couldn’t. As unobservant as John could be at times, even he’d surely grow suspicious when they’d get to Bart’s and Molly would have no spleen for them, and no knowledge of texting Sherlock.

“I’ll pick up something for dinner on my way back,” Sherlock offered. “Any preference?”

That seemed to brighten John’s spirits. “Nah, whatever you pick is fine with me. Just don’t put the spleen anywhere near the food.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

John just smiled and shook his head. Sherlock loved John’s smiles. Soon those smiles would be for someone else.

Would it ever stop hurting?

 

~***~

                                                              

Looking at pictures of the ballroom, seeing John in an impeccable suit, listening to the little details as plans for the weekend getaway fell into place, all of it would have been horrible enough if it had ended there, but it didn’t. No, what made it all worse, was that John was acting as if nothing had changed. At crime scenes, or the Yard, or in Bart’s, he still invaded Sherlock’s space. In cabs, and at the flat, he still sat close, thighs touching, arms brushing, and heads resting on shoulders. Touches still lingered as pens, phones, and mugs of tea were handed off. Fingers still intertwined, and heated looks still burned; perhaps even more often than before, Sherlock couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t know he was strong enough, to have John so close, to be so close to everything he’d ever wanted – or at the very least, ever wanted for the past six years – only to have to watch John fall in love with a woman all over again, and leave him like before. He should put a stop to everything, put some distance between himself and John, if only to keep his heart from shattering more than it already was. But Sherlock was weak, so painfully and pathetically weak. He drank up those little signs of affection and closeness like a dying man lost in a desert. He saved those moments, stored them in his mind palace; he would savor those memories for when John inevitably left him for good, and they were all he would have left of the only man he’d ever love.

 

~***~

 

Another thing that made John’s impending departure even worse, was Sherlock could not figure out the identity of the woman on the precipice of stealing John away – or more like, the woman John was going to willingly follow out of Sherlock’s life. She had to be someone special to have earned so much of John’s focus; John who couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger, and actively begged for escape during the preparations of his own wedding, but dove head first into planning a weekend trip to a friends’ anniversary celebration.

The only women John was in regular contact with were Molly, who was happily be courted by Grant, Sargent Donovan, that didn’t even bear thinking about, Mrs. Hudson, Harry, and two of the doctors from the surgery, both of whom were married. Sherlock confiscated John’s laptop often enough to know that there was no internet dating, no romantic correspondence of any kind online. Perhaps it was the new Detective Sargent working with Dimmock. Lauren Something… Marlow? Munro? Malone?

Lauren Something flirted with John whenever she saw him – the military fetish was glaringly obvious, always calling him Captain – and John would smile and be pleasant. But John was pleasant to most everyone until given an explicit reason not to be; something about wanting to stay on the good side of those providing them with cases, and not burning bridges. Sherlock never got the impression John was actually interested in her, though want did he know? Clearly his judgement was clouded when it came to emotions and romantic entanglements where John was concerned. For Christ’s sake, only a month prior, he’d been operating under the assumption that he had a shot with John, that John could be interested in him.

Well, whoever the faceless future Mrs. Watson was, she didn’t have John yet, John’s time was still his. The expiration date on their closeness was fast approaching, but Sherlock planned on running out the clock.

 

~***~

 

As it turned out, Sherlock had miscalculated precisely how much time was left on the clock, and everything came to a head the evening before John was set to leave.

“And the train gets in a half past one, so that’ll leave us more than enough time to check in to the hotel, and maybe have a little look around before having to head to the hall.”

“Wonderful.” Sherlock muttered from his position resolutely staring into his microscope, unable to keep the chill out of his voice.

Sherlock could hear movement, and after a few moments, tilted his head back to find John standing at his elbow, arms folded, staring at him.

“Alright, Sherlock, what’s going on with you? You’ve been acting tetchy since you got up this morning. Is something wrong, is there something you’re not telling me?”

Oh, Sherlock had been acting _tetchy_ , had he? Well John was the one who had been the one prattling on all day; letting Sherlock know when he’d finished packing, pointing out where the hotel confirmation was sitting, and now the train schedule. Sherlock had had enough, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“It’s this damn weekend, this stupid party!” he snapped. “I don’t need to hear all the details over and over again! Once was enough, I get it!”

John was quiet for a few moments, and Sherlock was just starting to think John would let his outburst slide, when, “Jesus Christ, Sherlock! If you didn’t want to go, you could have just told me!” He yelled, before turning to storm back into the sitting room.

“Oh yeah right! Like I could have –” Sherlock started, then stopped. “Wait… me go? I’m… you’re taking me?” He couldn’t have heard that right, there was no way John would…

“And I gave you an out when the invitation first came. You could have changed your mind at any point in the past six week, but you picked now to tell me?! I don’t get it, Sherlock.”

“John, shut up for a second.” If John was saying what Sherlock thought he was saying – hoped he was saying – it would change everything. He had to know. “You planned on… I’m going to Sherborne?”

“Well I thought so, but clearly I thought wro –” John didn’t get to finish his sentence, because Sherlock was out of the kitchen and across the sitting room in two seconds.

“Tell me if I’m wrong. Tell me if I’m doing something wrong.” He breathed, cupping John’s face in his hands, and leaning down until their mouths were only inches apart.

John shook his head. “You’re not doing anything wrong, not from where I’m standing.” And then there was no more distance, no more separation. John’s hands were gripping the lapels of his jacket, and John’s lips were on his.

If he didn’t know it was physically impossible, Sherlock would have sworn his heart was beating hard enough to crack his ribs. After four and a half years – six if he was being completely honest with himself – of hopelessly wanting, and desperately loving the man, he was kissing John; actually, miraculously – _finally_ – kissing John.

Sherlock tried to focus on recording every feeling, not wanting to forget even the smallest sensation, but then John’s hold tightened, his head tilted, and Sherlock felt his lips parted as the kiss deepened. It was all Sherlock could do to keep his knees from buckling. The brush of John’s lips, the subtle graze of teeth, and the gentle sweep of tongue, was better than anything Sherlock could have imagined because it was real. He gladly relinquished control, and allowed himself to melt into the kiss, into John’s kiss. Whether or not he moaned into said kiss, was and will forever remain, up for debate.

Eventually – it could have been minutes, it could have been hours – Sherlock felt John break the kiss, moving back just far enough that Sherlock could fully see his face.

“So, that happened.” John chuckled, still breathless from the kiss.

The sight of those deep blue eyes staring back at him with undeniable affection, the kiss swollen lips stretched into a smile, and the sound of that breathless laugh, were almost enough to make Sherlock dive back in for round two. “So, all of it, everything you did, all the plans, it was for us, for you and me? Everything?” he asked instead.

Grin broadening, John leaned forward press another light – all too brief – kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “Everything. Who did you think it was for?”

Feeling embarrassed, Sherlock just shrugged. “I don’t know. Some… some new woman.”

“No. No more women. Not anymore.”

“No more women, just me?” Sherlock asked. It all seemed too good to be true, he had run so many scenarios in his mind palace, he had to be sure he wasn’t still in there, he had to be sure it was all really happening.

“Just you. It seems like a bit of a long time coming, honestly.” John blushed. God, how right he was. “I know we never really talked about it, what was going on between us, where it was all heading. I was kind of hoping this weekend would, I don’t know, solidify it.”

“Solidify?”

“You know what I meant.”

“I really don’t. I think I need you to explain.” Sherlock smirked, suddenly feeling puckish. Oh dear lord, he was feeling puckish; what the hell had John done to him?

“I mean,” John sighed, rolling his eyes and maneuvering them over to sit on the sofa, “you and I would be going to this party together for no other reason than being there together. No case, no need to pretend to be something else to get information, just two people who like each other going out together and having fun. It’s formal, and social, and not something you bring ‘just a friend’ too; you bring someone special, significant.”

“And everything you’ve been doing, you’ve been trying to making it special for me, for us, because this is significant.”

Never once had Sherlock allowed his mind palace to conjure up something this good, he never allowed his hopes to get this high, not even by himself in his own head; meaning… this had to be real!

“I think that’s been well established, Sherlock” John laughed. “Now you’re just having fun with it.”

“A little clarification never hurt, and saying it out loud helps _solidify_ the facts.”

John cocked an eyebrow. “And when have you ever needed help understanding the facts?”

“Occasionally, rarely, but it’s been known to happen. Especially where you’re concerned,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling his cheeks flush. “So when you showed me the pictures of the hall and the dance floor, it’s because you want to…”

“To finally get a chance to dance with you in public, yeah.”

“And you bought a brand new, expensive, suit?”

“Well,” John laughed, “if I’m going to be seen with you, I figured I should look like I’m at least halfway deserving of having you on my arm. Or being on your arm, whichever you prefer.”

“Either.” Sherlock hummed, sliding even closer to John, which actually was saying something. “Just as long as they’re your arms and my arms, and no one else’s.”

“Hmmm, I think I can definitely work with that.” John managed to say, right before Sherlock reclaimed his mouth.

 

After several long minutes of kissing – Sherlock had honestly stopped paying attention to time – John’s fingers had found their way into Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock had found himself settled across John’s lap. It wasn’t until one of John’s arms dropped to Sherlock’s waist to presumably pull him in closer, that a single thought managed to make it to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind – passed the overwhelming chants of _‘John’s hands; John’s lips’_ – and he pulled back with a gasp.

“You booked us a room with one bed!” It wasn’t like they hadn’t shared a bed before, but all those times were for a case, and this time…

“I… I did, yeah.” John stumbled, his cheeks turning pink, though that may have been from their resent activity. “I’m not assuming anything. There’s – there’s still time for me to change the reservation. I’m sure I can get us a room with two beds. Or – or if you want, I can try to book a second room,” he added hastily.

“Don’t you dare,” Sherlock all but growled. “I’ve waited far too long for this, wanted this for too long. I’m not letting you get away now.” John was his now, and he intended on keeping him as close as humanly possible, if not closer.

 

“You know, I just realized something.” John said a couple hours later, after Sherlock had packed a bag, and they lay wrapped around one another on the sofa. “I never formally asked you to come with me, I just sort of assumed you knew there was nobody else but you. This whole mess could have been avoided if I had just done things right!”

“By all means, John, there’s still time to rectify this grievous mistake.”

“Right… Sherlock Holmes.” John attempted to sit up slightly to properly address Sherlock, but Sherlock was having none of that, so John just resettled himself on Sherlock’s chest. “Will you do me the honor of being my plus one to an anniversary party I have to go to tomorrow night?”

“Nothing would make me happier. And really, who else would you possibly go with?” Sherlock smirked, before gently pulling John’s face up to his, and kissing him… and again… and again.

 

* * *

 

“What's a gorgeous, posh thing like you, doing sitting down while there’s music playing? It seems a crime not to get you out on that dance floor.”

Sherlock looked up from the round table where he was currently sat, to find John looking stunning in his new suit, standing before him.

“Yes well, I had been dancing earlier, but my date said he wanted to have a word with the host and hostess, and told me he’d be right back. But that was a whole eleven minutes ago.”

“You’ve been dateless and not dancing for a whole eleven minutes? Now that is criminal! Your date is clearly an idiot, ditch him and come dance with me.”

“I thought you’d never ask.” Sherlock grinned, and let John lead him on to the dance floor as some ridiculous mid-nineties song played in the background.

_'You gave me wings and made me fly. You touched my hand I could touch the sky’_

Really? Sherlock didn’t care if it was from ‘the soundtrack of the wedding’, the nineteen-nineties was a terrible decade for music. Though he could admit – never out loud – that some of the lyrics seemed rather apt.

“I saw Michelle turn a look at me several times while you were speaking with her.” He said, once they had settled into a gentle sway to the music. “Anything I should know about?”

“Oh, it was nothing really.” John shrugged, glancing down at the floor before looking back up at Sherlock. “She was just telling me that she’s never seen me look so happy, and she’s glad I finally realized that you were the one for me.”

“She was glad you finally realized? How did _she_ know I was the one for you?” Sherlock was fairly sure he’d never seen Michelle Whitfield in his life before this evening.

“She’s read my blog, and she was at the wedding where apparently, it was, and I quote; glaringly obvious I belonged with the best man and not the bride. She also said something about undeniable chemistry.”

“And is she right?” Sherlock asked. “Am I the one for you?” He already knew John was it for him, his ‘one’, but he’d never…

“Totally, and completely.” John replied, interrupting Sherlock’s train of thought and lifting their joined hands to his lips. “There’s no one who has ever, or will ever, come close to you. You’re the one for me, Sherlock Holmes. I’m sorry it took me so long to finally get my act together, that we wasted so much time.”

“John…” Sherlock's breath hitched, he had meant to tell him that he was the one for him too, but what came out instead was “I'm in love with you.”

Shit! Was that too fast? But John had just said no one would come close to Sherlock, that Sherlock was the one for him. Surely that meant something, surely he –

“I love you too, Sherlock. More than anything, more than anyone.”

And suddenly Sherlock’s heart was beating again, and he could breathe, he hadn’t even realized either had stopped. But then again, John had the tendency of bringing Sherlock back to life, he’d been doing it consistently for the past six years.

 

“How much longer are we expected to stay?” Sherlock asked once the song had ended and transitioned into another equally absurd ballad. “Not to be indelicate, but I have something in mind I really want to do, and I’m going to need to get you somewhere private.”

“Just a bit longer. Give me one more song, I’ll say my goodbyes, and then I’m all yours.”

 

Nearly forty-five minutes later, after far too many goodbyes and promises to ‘get together soon’, Sherlock finally had John back in their room and all to himself, where he learned that reality getting John out of a bespoke three-piece suit was better than any fantasy. There were pants underneath the trousers in reality, but needless to say, they weren’t a problem for long.

As Sherlock fell asleep that night, pleasantly exhausted and blissfully worn out, he finally had everything he could ever want, and it was even better than he ever imagined. He was John’s, John was his, and Sherlock could never want for more. And really, why would he?

**Author's Note:**

> And they totally end up taking a late train back to London, because they just couldn't get out of bed the next morning!
> 
> I hope you liked my little fluffy offering before all hell breaks loose in a few weeks. Thanks for reading, and please tell me what you thought. Compliments, criticisms, and corrections, I welcome them all (I'm so needy I'll take anything)


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